


You're Looking At Me (Like You Don't Know Who I Am)

by Meduseld



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Communication Failure, Identity Porn, Lots of issues but they get there in the end, M/M, Secret Identity, This is a comedy trust me, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24441232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meduseld/pseuds/Meduseld
Summary: Batman really hates Bruce Wayne. Superman isn’t so sure.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 80
Kudos: 482
Collections: Superbat Reverse Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My comedic look at [WorkingChemistry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorkingChemistry/pseuds/WorkingChemistry)'s hilarious [art](https://workingchemistry.tumblr.com/post/621719768009949184/clark-isnt-sure-why-batman-hates-someone-as) for the 2020 Superbat Reverse Big Bang. And a shoutout to dippkip for being a great beta and lovely to talk to.

It’s probably not obvious to anyone else, though if it’s because of his powers or the amount of time he spends watching Batman is anyone’s guess.

Not that he would actually _tell_ anyone. If there were even anyone to tell.

But yeah, he probably spends way too much time staring at the man in the cowl, who reads as fully human to all his senses, no matter what the rumors or Green Lantern might say.

It’s how he knows that Batman absolutely _cannot stand_ the subject of Bruce Wayne.

Not in the way most people can’t, given that Wayne is the kind of vacuous tabloid fodder that cries out for a trashy reality show that will be decried as an omen of the imminent downfall of Western civilization. But in the grinding his teeth inside the mask, the discreet bulge of the jaw, the microscopic scrape reminding him of the sound snow makes falling on snow. It’s never alone, always with the tightening of his gloves on his knuckles.

To anybody else there’s probably no change worth noting. To Clark he’s ridiculously obvious.

Sometimes he thinks about bringing it up. Maybe one day when they’re watching the console on the satellite together, those rare times Earth is still and silent.

It’s the closest he’s ever felt to understood, talking quietly about everything and nothing with a man that has seen him bend steel without blinking. Batman is the most at ease Clark’s ever seen him, those times, the slope of his shoulders ever so slightly relaxed. Unafraid.

Sometimes, Clark thinks he could tell Batman absolutely everything. Who he is, where he’s from, and ask, finally, why Wayne pisses him off so badly Clark can practically taste it.

What stops him, every time, is that maybe Batman would take it badly, and then those rare silences would be tense instead of companionable.

He can’t risk that, not for anything.

It’s one of the few times he feels at home, having left Kansas and his childhood behind. And it’s with a man whose face he’s never seen.

Properly, anyway. That bit of chin tells its own story.

Still, he can’t help himself from looking up sharply when Flash and Green Lantern start a round of celebrity themed fuck-marry-kill and Bruce Wayne is the third name to come up.

Predictably, Batman is radiating tension, thick and invisible. It’s giving himself away, he knows, but he clears his throat.

For half a second, Flash and Green Lantern look just a teensy bit embarrassed. Or Flash does, at any rate.

He’s not confident enough to push the boy scout routine though, and it would make this more complicated than it has to be.

So Clark pretends he doesn’t notice their pause, instead and nods at Batman like nothing is odd at all.

“A word please?” Clark says easily enough, and everything flows back to normal, absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

He knows they call them Mom and Dad when they think he can’t hear. Clark’s Mom, which he can’t deny. Easier to pretend he doesn’t know.

Batman strides out of the steely lounge, a minute twitch of his jaw the only indication to follow him. Clark floats behind him easily.

He could walk, sure, but the glee of being able to do this whenever he wants in front of people who won’t blink at it still hasn’t worn off.

Batman doesn’t duck into the console room, currently manned by Arthur, who doesn’t care what they do or don’t know about him, since his life is mostly in a place they can’t reach, and J’onn who doesn’t really have a personal life anyway.

Instead, he makes his, their, way to the far room on this level, the awkward bit of extra space they turned into what’s allegedly a meeting room just to do something with it.

He turns, the cape flaring dramatically, but the effect is lost on Clark. He’s seen it a little too often.

Heavy gauntlets, edges out, folded over his chest, Batman growls “Yes?” in that technologically boosted guttural hell voice.

Right over it, slightly delayed, Clark can hear his real voice well enough to get annoyed at the overlap, but not enough to isolate it in his mind. No one else can hear him like that, as far as he knows. 

“Nothing actually” he says, trying to make the Midwest thick in his voice, needling, just a little.

“You just seemed upset, so...” he adds, wondering if he’s signing his death warrant.

Just because Batman listens to him, those long nights, lets him vent his frustrations, obliquely as he can, works with him on the field, doesn’t mean he’s going to take this well.

At all. Batman lets all his air out of his nose, an old tactic, whistling high and sharp in Clark’s ears.

“There’s no call for you to rescue me” he says, but doesn’t sound upset, not really. Clark can tell by now when he’s growling for the sake of it.

“I’m a big boy, I can take it” he adds, and that’s when Clark thinks he hasn’t actually understood. Not really. Not what Clark’s saying.

“First of all, we’re a team, it’s what we do. And second, I’m trying to offset my mental countdown of the day you finally snap and punch someone for mentioning Bruce Wayne” he says, and this time the shriek of air is making its way _into_ Batman’s lungs.

He tells himself he only said it because it’s fair and right, not something he should keep as a secret. He’s definitely not showing off the fact that Clark knows him too, in his own way.

For a minute, it looks like Clark’s the one that’s going to get decked for mentioning that name, then Batman sighs, defeated, the additions to the cowl making him sound a little like Darth Vader.

“Fine. I don’t like him” “You hate him” “ _Fine_. Hate is the word. He’s…” and Clark feels like a schoolgirl at a sleepover, bonding over petty gossip. It’s embarrassingly thrilling.

“Wayne is everything wrong with Gotham City, and American society in general” he says and before Clark can point out that Gotham has a problem with killer clowns and mutated crocodile men, Batman adds “because people like him generate and maintain the conditions that allow it”.

It’s almost like he can read Clark’s mind. It’s endearing, instead of terrifying. Mostly.

“Alright, point taken. And I wasn’t trying to tease you, just give you an out” Clark says, palms up.

For a second, there’s the ghost of a smile playing on the part of Batman’s face Clark can actually see. Then he shakes his head, a living, moving shadow.

“I do have actual work to do, Superman” he hisses, but it’s the tone he always uses, not an indication he’s upset. Clark hopes.

They walk out together, heads bowed over the roster Batman’s pulled up on his tablet and Clark decides that, all in all, it counts as a win.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from 5 Seconds of Summer's _[Teeth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JWeJHN5P-E8)_ which fits pretty well. For the purposes of this fic, Metropolis is Chicago. And, V, thank you for allowing me to talk myself into this.


	2. Chapter 2

Most of Monday is productive, if you count staring at the ugly carpeting of the sixth floor of the Daily Planet building and bonding via arguing with Jimmy and Lois about whether it’s more blue-green or blue-purple or blue-fucking-ugly.

His powers give him absolutely no edge, but they do make him get a headache the fastest, because floors are microscopic horrorscapes of mind-bending insanity if you stare too long, so he takes the first coffee run. It’s nice.

The only reason they’re so idle is because they have a new defamation lawsuit pending, which Lois takes as a sign that they’re doing their jobs right, but also means they’re temporally assigned to other beats while everything gets sorted.

Mostly it leads to the sort of shenanigans that make Perry shake his head at them with a sigh. At least no desk chairs have been harmed this time. Yet, anyway.

Clark thinks Jimmy might actually like it better this way, all of them assigned to things that don’t come close to being important, since it cuts down on the death threats.

Lois hates it though, and pretty much uses the time to plot their next big piece, this time hopefully on the horrific alliance that seems to have happened between Luthor and Manheim.

Clark dutifully gives her a list of terribly punny article titles, like _Unholy Matrimony_ and _Living in Sin City_ as she lobs a colorful variety of stress balls at him.

He’s not sure who has that many, or how many desks she’s stealing them from, but it’s something impressive. She’s got dead aim, too.

Clark’s just happy to have his people with him. After his parents’ farm in Kansas, with the paint always peeling and the kitchen always warm, and the Justice League satellite when the table is full and everyone is focused, the bullpen of the Planet with his team is home.

Especially after he finishes his only assignments for the week, a fluff piece on celebrity pets and his turn at their Dear Cat column, finally free to give Lois and her elaborate plans all his attention.

She would have made one hell of a general, and he’d say it if he didn’t think she’d find a way to maim him if he did. And she doesn’t even know he’s Superman. Yet.

Sometimes he thinks about telling her. Until he remembers that as much as he likes her, no one gives him more shit. Which is exactly what she does when the next calamity strikes.

Perry ambles up to them with _that face_ , the one that says I don’t like this either but I’m the boss, boys and girl. Last time they had to cover a red carpet.

Lois might move hell to Earth if it happens again. Clark might just help her.

It was the time Bruce Wayne had worn a Superman t-shirt and told the whole world that it was because he was the hottest superhero, with “an ass to match”. Whatever that meant.

At least no one thought anything of it when Clark flushed so bright he was a meme for a week and a half.

The worst part? Despite the fact that he could practically hear the dial tone coming from between Wayne’s ears, it hadn’t escaped him that he was hot himself.

And that the shirt was a size too small.

That one he won’t tell anyone, even if they break out Kryptonite thumb screws.

“Got an assignment for you, Kent, and I know you won’t like it so save me some grief. You’re interviewing Mr. Bruce Wayne himself on his swanky yacht. He’s in the harbor and his pretty face sells papers” Perry said, like he’d heard everything Clark was thinking.

If there was ever a candidate for being another super powered individual working at the Daily Planet, it was Perry “You Can’t Prove I’m Not Psychic” White.

Or Clark had a terrible poker face, whichever.

“Why me?” Clark says, because he was an only child and Perry doesn’t have any kids of his own so they’re it.

“Cat’s out sick, salmonella from that new fusion whatever place she was going to review, so you can look forward to her evisceration of it. You’re the only one I got free, and before you say it, you know why not Lois. Take Jimmy for the shots, apparently he’s not sticking around too long” and that’s that.

Perry hands him a page with the details, time and exact place and what the entertainment section wants.

Jimmy glances at it with a grin and shoots up like a gazelle to get his gear.

Clark flattens it out on his desk and then lets his forehead drop on it. This was all his fault, his cosmic punishment, all for telling Batman there’s no way he was that bad.

“Aw, Smallville, chin up! You get to be sexually harassed by a billionaire, it’s every Midwest girl’s dream” Lois snickers above him.

Scratch that, it’s Lois’ fault for turning every attempt at making her do entertainment news into the stuff of train wreck legend.

Like the time she’d thrown a drink in Luthor’s face for talking into her cleavage and saying it was “a waste on such a nasty woman”. There hadn’t been a lawsuit that time, at least.

Apparently he looks at her balefully enough for her to soften.

“He’s not that bad, actually, from what I hear. Just get in and get out, like a. Flu shot” and he can tell he just censored whatever soldier’s phrase of her father’s he was about to use.

“I hate you” he says instead. Lois laughs, making a jerk off motion.

He wants to stay mad but he can’t, turning away to hide a smile.

“I’m serious. I have to talk to some over privileged airhead that wouldn’t know the real world if it bit him and you’re laughing” he said into his desk, barely hiding how amused he already was.

“First off, I’m always going to laugh at you, you baby, no matter what. And second, we’re doing the truffle shuffle right now Smallville, none of us get to cover our beats” Lois says, softening her words by running a hand over his head like he’s her cat.

Clark glares up from where his cheek is happily resting on the paper, but she’s already won and they both know it.

“You get to cover sports and you like it” he says, just to say something while he straightens up and turns to his computer with a sigh, trying to prep for this afternoon.

“Not with the way the Metropolis Queens have been playing this year” Lois says and throws the final, basketball shaped stress ball at his head as she leaves.

He catches it and nails her in the back of her own head, the red hair spiking up like a cartoon and his spirits lifting for a minute.

Then he remembers that Wayne once said, when asked after his notorious London bender slash trip, if he’d been to Big Ben, that he “couldn’t remember the names of all the nightclubs I hit”.

It was shaping up to be a terrible day.

And it would only get worse from there, he just knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lex Luthor is [basically Trump](https://thx-a-latke.tumblr.com/post/162392312569) so [that's where that](https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-50563106) came from.


	3. Chapter 3

Clark doesn’t know a single thing about boats, because he grew up in a state that was both landlocked and flatter than a pancake.

But he knows that he’s looking at a very nice, very expensive one.

He could ask why Bruce Wayne, jet setting playboy extraordinaire, even wants to keep a yacht this nice stuck in the Great Lakes but he’s not about to. He doesn’t think he could handle the probable nausea that would come with the answer.

There’s no doubt the boat is his, even if he didn’t have the berth number in Perry’s neat hand, the Wayne Industries logo is emblazoned on the side and it’s called the “Gotham Knight III” which is just the gaudy, tacky and ridiculous sort of thing Clark was already expecting.

He shifts his weight, fighting the urge to just fly far, far away, letting Jimmy get a few suitably impressive shots of the yacht. The thing that really impresses Clark is the unflappable British butler waiting for them when they come aboard, like something out of a movie.

His posture is impeccable, even if you couldn’t see it in x-ray vision. It’s going improbably well.

Which is of course when Bruce Wayne swans in and Clark has, for the first time since he was a teenager, the instinct to let his heat vision run wild.

He was expecting preppy boat attire, some Sperrys under too short khakis and either a too tight shirt or a loose and open one.

He didn’t expect Wayne to be modest, but he didn’t think the cold wind off the lake was enough to justify black leather pants that left nothing to the imagination, a bare stretch of perfectly toned abs and a gauzy red shirt that let Clark see his nipples.

Not something he needed, eyes flicking to the otherwise tasteful decor as Jimmy snaps a few shots of Wayne, looking like a modern day siren.

“Hiiiiiiiiiiii. Let’s do this Detroit Free Press!” Wayne says and his voice is so fake, so sexy-breathy-baby that Clark wished he _had_ lost control and burned a hole in his forehead. A tiny one.

“We’re from the Daily Planet, from right here. In Metropolis” Clark answers, hating how clear it was that he didn’t want to be here.

He’d convinced warlords and supervillains that he _just wanted to hear their side of the story_ but Wayne was at once too annoyingly ditzy and distractingly attractive as his perfectly sculpted eyebrows drew together in confusion for Clark to keep his cool.

“But this is Lake Michigan. It’s in _Michigan”_ he says and Clark can smell the artificial strawberry of his lip balm, the rosy shade making it easier to take all the stupid coming from his lips.

“Lake Michigan borders Michigan, Wisconsin, Indiana and Illinois; that’s us” Clark says and counted back from five in his head. He wanted very badly to be anywhere but there.

“Hm. Whatever. Is this good light?” Wayne says, already bored, striking a pose for Jimmy and coming dangerously close to showing off his family jewels.

Distantly, as he pouted and vogued for the camera, Clark hears the crack of plastic as his pen gives way under his thumb. It’s finally enough to tear his eyes away and look, a little frantically, for a trashcan.

Before he can ask, the butler materializes at his shoulder with his hand wordlessly out.

He hesitates, but when Wayne starts to giggle just like Barbie at how much the camera loves him, he drops it, ink splatters and all, right onto his white gloved palm.

The interview is, of course, ultimately as productive as asking a coked-up Schnauzer their opinion on Tolstoy.

Asking about Wayne Enterprises’ famously charitable causes gives him “the accountants tell me it’s good for taxes and like, people get help and stuff”, asking about what new things Wayne is trying in life “um, a month ago I wore underwear for like the first time since I was like thirteen but that lasted like a week”, if he is reading anything even though he knew it would be "Oh honey no. Like even people on Insta who post lots of quotes have major issues. I can't take all the quotes in my feed, I mean Instagram is for pics!" and finally, as he feels something like madness setting in Clark tries the most softball question he can think of: any pet peeves?

And gets "when people wear the wrong foundation color. It might be the worst thing on the planet when they wear their makeup too light. Like. Get a mirror, they’re cheap. I think" and before Wayne can launch into the saga of the totally gorgeous vintage mirror he found in a chalet in Switzerland that he totally had to have and ended up paying millions in euros for since the owner would only part with the fully furnished house, that he then had flown out to one of his penthouses in Gotham, that Clark has already read about in three separate interviews, Clark waves at Jimmy to move in for more pictures.

Wayne is too focused on duck facing at the lens to notice Clark pinching the bridge of his nose.

The piece was just mainly going to be about the decor, probably, waxing lyrical about how nice the light looked as the sun set over the lake. Clark will think of something, and Jimmy’s pictures will eat up plenty of space. They have to.

There is also the very excellent coffee service. Of course, given his luck, it is a mistake to even think it.

Because just as Clark brings the dainty, W monogrammed and freshly streaming cup to his lips, Wayne throws back an elbow for a pose and knocks it directly into Clark’s crotch.

Even Clark notices his own delay before he realizes he should pretend that _OW_ oh, yeah, that’s really hot ow, ow, ow.

But Wayne apparently doesn’t, already with a napkin in hand and _Oh God and Rao_ , working very insistently at the stain. Which is when Clark’s smaller head, that only cares how pretty he looks kneeling on the couch and leaning into Clark’s lap starts to take notice. That is when Clark finally shoots up like he really has been burned, trying to remember that Wayne’s everything else is a turn off, from the excessive money to the modem dial up noise that must be most of his thoughts.

He locks himself in the bathroom to clean up, takes three breaths and practically runs out with Jimmy, making excuses over his shoulder, feeling like he’s barely making it out alive.

“DM me the interview link!” is all Wayne says, looking devastatingly gorgeous and airheaded on the mussed pillows of the sofa.

Clark makes some agreeing sounding noise as they disembark.

The creak of the boards of the marina and the clean air brings him back to himself and keeps him from screaming.

At least until Jimmy says “guess you did get sexually harassed after all” with a grin that Clark only just stops himself from punching off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of Bruce's stupider quotes are, more or less, from actual famous people, more or less, like [Shaq](https://www.orlandosentinel.com/news/os-xpm-1994-10-22-9410220319-story.html), [Kim K](https://www.buzzfeed.com/elliewoodward/things-kim-kardashian-has-100-actually-said) and [celeb flat earthers](https://people.com/celebrity/flat-earth-celebrities-world-not-round/). And Kansas [truly is flatter than a pancake](http://www.usu.edu/geo/geomorph/kansas.html#:~:text=The%20topographic%20transects%20of%20both,would%20indicate%20perfect%2C%20platonic%20flatness.).


	4. Chapter 4

After dropping Jimmy off at the Planet and going home to have a really, really hot shower during which he pointedly didn’t do anything but stand under the spray, the plan is to bang out the Wayne piece as quickly as possible and then do everything he could to forget the man even existed.

Even if Clark could swear he can still feel those strong, perfectly manicured fingers right where he wants them most. And see the way that tight leather left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

But he’s done thinking about it, he swears. Because it doesn’t matter how pretty or equally vapid he was.

Bruce Wayne is someone that will only ever tangentially brush his life and Clark should be grateful for it. He wasn’t sure if he was about to snap and kiss him _or_ kill him. Maybe both.

He can write the piece in his sleep, it’s empty fluff meant to be quickly forgotten and Clark wants to do other things with his time.

Best do it tonight, while it’s all horrifically fresh so it can be put out of mind as soon as possible.

Only when he sits at his laptop, he can’t do it. Instead he lets his head drop onto his lumpy couch and enjoys the not silence of the building.

There’s footsteps and rushing water, bubbling food on stoves, turning book and magazine pages, a giggling baby, snores from cats and dogs, a violin coming through speakers and someone singing, very quietly, to themselves. It’s life and there’s nothing more soothing.

Or anything worse to break his reverie than the metallic buzz and chime of his League comm.

It’s not the worst noise it can make, the hey-so-the-world-is-ending alarm bulletin, but it’s not the soft _ting_ of the general service announcements.

“All points” Batman’s voice says and Clark tenses, picking out gunfire in the background noise.

It’s not that he has favorites, and he’d be there for any Leaguer that needs him, but the thought of Batman, who is just _human_ , getting hurt makes his stomach flip. And he’s usually in more trouble than the rest of them put together.

Which tonight, of course, he is.

“I could use some support at” Batman’s even tone continues, as he rattles off a set of coordinates located at Fond du Lac.

Which actually isn’t far, thanks to all the Gods he knows both in person and not, Clark thinks as he’s already flying halfway out of Metropolis and answering the call.

Between the two of them it’s pretty quick work, the way it always is when their side by side and on the same wavelength, Clark materializing by Batman’s feral smile like they’d planned it.

He hadn’t been aware anyone this far north wanted Joker toxin, even if they were probably going to send it even further, to Canada and beyond. By now, he’s out of the habit of asking Batman what, exactly, is going on. All he needs is to know what he can do right now.

It’s probably a bad sign, but he already got this far ignoring the omens. His gut says Batman can be trusted, and most days he can ignore the fact that his lower head might have weighed in on that call.

It’s not like anyone else can smell how intoxicating Batman is, sweat and leather and metal and resolve.

Especially when they’re throwing bad men around like they’ve spent their whole lives doing it together.

“Man was I glad to see you” Clark says when they’re setting up the ReadiTent, to make it just a tiny bit easier on the authorities when they collect the tied up perps and to make it a lot easier on Batman while he collects supplies.

Even though the cowl is fixed above the eyes, Clark can feel how one eyebrow arches.

“You do remember that _I_ called _you_ , correct?” Batman says and Clark laughs.

“I was having a very quiet night in” he says as he follows the matte black cape into the gloom.

There’s a stick to crack at the doorway, that will light up the structure inside, made on the same principle as a glow stick, but neither of them moves to do it.

Batman likes the dark, and Clark likes to watch him work.

“That boring?” he says, voice echoing off the concrete as he kneels to take a sample. For a second, Clark forgets what they’re talking about.

“Yeah” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed. Their lives are beyond extraordinary, but he still has plenty of ordinary days.

The same has to be true for Batman but Clark feels like he’s sixteen and a total loser again. And he could fly then too.

In the dim light, he can still see the smirk coiled in the corner of Batman’s mouth, the stubble starting to grow along his cheeks.

Jet black, like Clark’s, even though the filaments aren’t exactly the same.

“Glad I could spice it up” Batman says, suddenly looming into his personal space, like he really is some spawn of the night instead of a man, only a man, in very nice armor.

Clark doesn’t flinch.

Instead he puts his hand out for the stun grenade in Batman’s hand and crushes it, the way he always does, turning it from lethal to harmless scrap metal.

“Me too” he says and he means it. It’s all he can think of, Batman’s breathing so close it’s brushing Clark’s lips.

Neither of them move, growing more comfortable in the tension. These are Clark’s favorite moments, a kaleidoscopic collection he can’t admit to, the times they’ve been this close and perfectly in sync.

Batman always makes him feel seen, even when he’s talking into a tablet about their team roster or ordering Clark to toss him at a building sized monster like a basketball.

It’s not that he doesn’t know that Superman could kill or maim him in an eye blink, and it’s not that he doesn’t care in the casual way Green Lantern doesn’t. It’s that he knows him enough to know he can trust him not to.

He feels like home, in an entirely different way.

They’re still looking at each other and he almost has time to think that it’s weird. That it might mean something.

Until they both turn their heads at the exact same time, hearing the distant siren bearing down on them.

Time to go, and Batman is a melting shadow, gone so fast he doesn’t even get to offer him a ride.

So Clark sticks around to talk to the cops, which is part of their deal. Clark deals with public servants, and Batman rides herd on the Leaguers, all for the low, low price of only ever bitching about it to each other. And pretending they don’t love it.

There’s a reason their nicknames are Mom and Dad.

When he finally gets home, adding a few unnecessary loops to his flight until he can’t avoid it any longer, his laptop is on.

The cursor is still blinking in and out on an empty word document.

Clark just slams the lid shut and goes to bed, still thinking about how close Batman had been and how far away he felt now.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day is also mostly terrible. Lois is in a mood because she wants to cover what happened at Fond du Lac and she’s not allowed.

It makes her awful to be around, like a dark cloud constantly swearing under her breath as she texts the reporters that _did_ get sent out until Perry forces her out the door for lunch.

Jimmy keeps _smiling_ at him in a way that makes him suspect that there’s pictures of Wayne blotting coffee from his crotch but the fact that all the photos are digital by now means that making sure of that _and_ erasing them is going to be complicated, powers or no powers.

To make matters worse, he still can’t get himself to write the stupid piece.

There are things he _wants_ to say, sure, mostly along the lines of _Seriously people? This is what you want to hear about? Everything that’s happening in the world right now and you want glamour shots of a himbo so phenomenally out of touch it’s not even train wreck entertainment, it really just makes me sad_?

He types it out then erases it, letter by letter.

There’s not even a looming deadline to help push him along, last night’s drug fueled shootout got it bumped out to the weekend coverage, where the internet division can best optimize clicks for it.

And Lois is out to lunch, or more like Perry is probably trying to both feed her and keep her from texting and eating, so he can’t even have that.

His League comm is quiet and so is the city, still sleepy under a late Spring that’s only just beginning to thaw.

He loves Metropolis, really he does, but sometimes he yearns for some Gotham level excitement.

That just makes him sad all over again, because he can’t just text Batman, no matter how much he wants to.

He’d take the dry humor at his expense, he’d spring for lunch even. Once they’d had Thai food in actual Thailand and Batman had laughed at his jokes. Well a singular joke, and it had been a tiny chuckle, but he felt like he’d moved a mountain.

It was entirely possible that Clark, who was the last son of Krypton and world beloved and renowned hero Superman, was, in fact, a pathetic, pining loser. Go figure.

The afternoon is just as dead, Lois still snappish and difficult, Jimmy still smug. Clark edits a few pieces, most of which he likes. At the very least he’s trying that dip recipe from their cooking column.

Then he spends some time ducking the sports guys because he knows they miss Lois and her insights but he honestly doesn’t know anything about it and he doesn’t care if Raepher McDougal is accused of doping and/or using magic on the ice.

He still sends Dr. Fate a message so he’ll look into it because the picture does look a little mystically or at least necromantically inclined.

Until suddenly the day’s done and there’s no reason to stick around.

He doesn’t have patrol for another three hours and no satellite duty for days. There are entire subreddits dedicated to his hair because people admire him that much and Clark has absolutely nothing to do. So he goes to the satellite anyway.

Earth looks beautiful from the windows, shiny and safe and pristine. At least until Green Lantern claps his shoulder with a grin and a “just in time. We need a fourth for cards” and he remembers how dark it can get.

Still, he takes his fleecing with a smile, and then takes a very grateful Flash’s shift on the console. He can almost smell his girl’s perfume on the ruby red suit.

But whatever forces are conspiring against him are still at it, the shift and patrols are all quiet, and soon half the world is asleep.

“Another stellar day?” Batman rumbles behind him.

Clark can’t help the grin. “Better now that you’re in it” he says bounding out of the seat.

Batman jerks his shoulder back, a tiny motion that Clark reads as “I need coffee and I know you don’t, walk with me to the kitchen and we’ll talk shop”.

Expressive, Batman’s shoulders are. Probably to make up for the mask.

But he’s quiet on the walk, and mixes up the two mugs, black as night, just the way they both like it, by himself.

He hands over Clark’s mug, after adding just the right amount of sugar, and Clark thinks that this little moment was worth the entire shitty day.

“So you were right” Clark says, because he needs to say something and he’s still thinking about it, _dammit_ , despite everything else.

“I usually am. Remind me what about” Batman deadpans, then takes a dainty sip. One of the few unequivocal things Clark knows about him is that he has perfect table manners.

“Bruce Wayne is the worst” he says, then takes a sip, gulping coffee hot enough to scald a human. He’s only just realized it might be a mistake to say it.

“Ah” Batman says, and looks into the mug. “Any particular reason?” he adds into the thorny silence.

“He just… _is_. I had a run in” Clark says into his already empty mug. He has a bad habit of drinking too fast, running out of something to do with his mouth and hands. At the bottom of the cup, the dregs make a mocking smiley face.

“Did he cop a feel?” Batman says and he sounds almost amused. Or disgusted. Hard to tell, neither tone is common.

“Uh. Sort of?” he says and he can feel himself blush. Definitely a mistake. God knows what Batman’s thinking now.

“I mean. Okay, so he’s not smart-” and Batman snorts “but I don’t think he’s actively bad. Or malicious. And he’s pretty” he hears himself say. _Regret, thy name is Clark Kent_.

He doesn’t know why he said it, beyond the fact that it’s true and he couldn’t _not_ notice.

“That he is” Batman says at last, into his coffee. He looks like he’s thinking, and Clark prays fervently to whoever is listening that it’s not about ways to kill him after this.

Finally, Batman gives his mug a new swirl and looks up. Clark can’t see the eyes behind the lenses but he can feel them.

“Who knows. Maybe next time you’ll get lucky” he drawls and disappears through the door with a flick of his cape.

Clark gapes and then has to set his mug down very quickly so he won’t crush it. He has no idea what that _means_.

Or what awful, justified, things Batman may think of him now.

All he knows is that he wants the satellite to crack and send him hurtling into space far, far away.

He was right. You could keep the demigods and Congressional acclaim and thankful citizens. Fuck his _life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you recognized the name [Raepher McDougal](https://www.writeups.org/frost-giant-leave-it-to-chance-image-comics/), you have excellent taste in comic books.


	6. Chapter 6

By the time Clark finally files the Wayne piece, as close to overdue as he ever gets, he’s ready to never think of him ever again.

It might be his imagination but things feel weird between him and Batman, or maybe he’s just making them weird. They haven’t mentioned their conversation again.

But there hasn’t been any downtick in their times together, at least, even if there’s been less talking.

Still doesn’t help that there’s a shot of the interview that’s blown up on the Planet’s Instagram.

It’s all Jimmy’s fault for being good at his job: Clark’s hands are in the air and he looks, with his glasses and professor-like brown jacket, like he’s saying something worth hearing.

Especially since Wayne looks rapt, or half in love, curled up on the couch with his face leaning on his fist, elbow artfully propping it up, seemingly listening intently. And very enticingly biting his lip.

It might be from the moment where Clark had to explain that no matter what YouTube said, Earth was actually very easily provably round.

Without saying he’d flown around it plenty of times.

The point is, Clark isn’t hiding in the stairwell exactly, it’s just that the roof is so nice and he has nothing to do in the bullpen, he’s avoiding Jimmy and Lois is still as tetchy as a badger anyway.

So that’s where Perry finds him, which is better than having witnesses for what comes next.

Perry hands over the clearly expensive embossed purple envelope with a sigh. “Yes, _you_ , Wayne asked for you specifically… I’d avoid Cat for a while” he says and shrugs as Clark’s face drops.

His stomach is sinking too and he doesn’t know what to say, how to express to a man he thinks of as practically a father that Wayne might be actually be totally hot for him, and _to_ him, but that Clark doesn’t want to go there.

All he can do is take the envelope, stuffed with an invitation for a hot gallery opening in the New Genesis district, with artists he’s never heard of (Antal, Wilson and Grace sounds like a law firm to him).

Clark is so clearly out of his depth that Perry just looks sad. “Rayner’s not invited either, so meet him at Lou’s to prep, alright?” and now Clark wants to crawl into a hole and die.

Lou is the tailor that helps them when they need to rent fancy dress on the fly and Rayner is their art critic, who probably wants Clark’s blood as bad as Cat does right now.

This is probably his cosmic punishment for fist fighting gods both old and new, no matter how much they had it coming.

He somehow miraculously makes it through Rayner’s clenched teeth and Lou’s pins, only to ascend into a trendy converted loft that smells so strongly of paint fumes and expensive champagne he nearly loses his lunch when he steps out of the elevator.

Before he can even find his footing and start trying to look at the art, Bruce Wayne is on him like a typhoon made of sequins and lace.

Clark doesn’t know if Wayne actually looks good, but he’s certainly hard to look away from, especially with how much skin is on display.

“You came!” Wayne says happily and Clark is suddenly, uncomfortably reminded of both Cher Horowitz and her monologue on getting boys to think of sex.

“Uh, yeah, I actually-” and that’s all he manages to get out before Wayne is touring him through the room, happily pointing out sullen looking artists in black, scribbling critics and over-jeweled art dealers, detailing exactly how he feels about all of them without any care for social graces. After a certain level of wealth and notoriety, those things apparently stop applying.

He can’t get a word in edgewise, at least until Wayne’s voice chirps: “And _this_ is the main attraction!” shoving them both into a small room off the side Clark hadn’t even noticed.

Clark has time to realize that it’s dark, despite the windows, full of covered canvas and wooden boxes postmarked for far away destinations before he sees that it doesn’t seem to be set up for visitors.

As he turns to ask Wayne what special work they’re viewing, he finds himself floored by Wayne’s open, saucy grin as he slides the metal door shut behind them. It makes an already intimate setting racy, the way he can hear the muffled party through the paint splattered steel and the rush of traffic on the streets below, close and far away.

“One night only” Wayne adds, voice low and inviting.

Clark’s hand rises, to stop Wayne or entice him forward, he’s not sure.

Wayne is, striding into his space like a prowling predator and kissing the air out of his lungs.

He tastes like vanilla lip gloss and the fizzy champagne they were serving, his clever tongue making Clark arch.

Wayne’s teeth nip, just a tiny bit, at his lip, at the same time that his hands close on Clark’s belt, and that’s when Clark groans, then remembers just who and where he is and takes a step back.

“Mr. Wayne I’m sorry I-I-I think I’ve given you the wrong impression-” “Really?” Wayne purrs, wicked tongue brushing the corner of his mouth as he turns that hot gaze, his eyes very blue, on Clark’s very obviously interested crotch.

The head on his shoulders doesn’t agree.

“Look, you’re very beautiful, but-” “If it’s about the article don’t worry, I can fill you in in under twenty minutes after I’ve put my mouth to much _better_ use” he says, taking Clark’s next excuse out of his mouth with another knee-quaking step forward, everything about him promising a night to remember.

Clark’s skin suddenly feels very, very thin, ready to burst at a touch. He can’t remember why this is a bad idea.

Wayne must feel it too, how much Clark’s body _wants,_ as he traces a cool finger over Clark’s blushing cheeks, then his chest, “nobody ever has to know” and that’s all he needs.

“There’s someone else” he says and he’s horrified to find that that is true.

Wayne’s eyebrow goes up: “Really?” But it’s true. Batman might not be _his_ , but he can’t imagine him knowing about this.

And before Wayne can say something terrible, like _they don’t have to know_ , Clark realizes that he himself couldn’t live with knowing he did this.

Because Clark’s not this guy, he doesn’t want this with someone he doesn’t love, someone who knows him, _all_ of him.

The simple truth is, laid out before him now, exactly what he says to Wayne: “I’d rather have a conversation with him than a night with you”.

Something in Wayne’s face changes, as he steps back, taking the steamy atmosphere with him.

In the dark, he looks like a different person. One Clark already likes better.

“You’re a good man, Clark Kent. Even better than I thought you were” he says in a voice without any affectations or baby talk. He sounds, for the first time, like a grown up.

Clark doesn’t know what to say. Or if there’s anything left _to_ say.

He should just walk out, see what he can salvage of the evening.

That’s the moment when it happens. The alarm comes, blaring from his League comm, the one that means all hands on deck, _now._

But it’s not just his.

It’s also coming from the front pocket of Wayne’s perfectly tailored pants.

“Let’s go” Batman growls, instantly recognizable even now, and Clark, helpless, follows. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those are all in canon artists in the DC Universe:[Antal](https://dc.fandom.com/wiki/Pierre_Antal_\(Earth-Two\)), [Wilson](https://dc.fandom.com/wiki/Joseph_Wilson_\(New_Earth\)) and [Grace](https://dc.fandom.com/wiki/Karin_Grace_\(New_Earth\)). [Kyle Rayner](https://dc.fandom.com/wiki/Kyle_Rayner_\(Prime_Earth\)) is also an artist, which helps explain the annoyance, and I named the trendy art district New Genesis because [Scott Free](https://dc.fandom.com/wiki/Mister_Miracle) is an escape artist and I am hilarious.


	7. Chapter 7

They work together perfectly. It’s what they do.

No one makes it this far without knowing how to compartmentalize, to put things aside when a beam hits from space, trying to crack the planet in half.

Clark would never let his emotions bleed out so selfishly and carelessly and recklessly. Not with other lives at stake.

Instead he focuses on the job at hand.

At least when it hits it’s in the ocean, where there’s no settlements, human or otherwise, though from the look on Arthur’s face that’s not a huge comfort to him.

Still, they all do what they know how to do. That’s the easy part, and 13 hours of chaos later it’s all over. It’s only then that they fight.

Clark knows himself well enough to not go back to the satellite. He heads straight home instead.

Batman can handle the debrief and Clark can’t handle being around him right now.

He barely manages a shower and getting back to everyone at the Planet, assuring them he’s alright and ready to report on the events, that he’s been at it with his sources, some that might even have pictures, and that none of last night was a waste.

Clark doesn’t even come close to convincing himself.

Or to being surprised when there was a knock on his window, followed by the inky black shape of armor on a man he didn’t know what to call.

At least he’d pretended at politeness. And they’d get this over with.

At least it wouldn’t fester. It was cold comfort.

They stared each other down in the uncomfortable silence. Batman clenching his jaw and Clark’s fists curling and uncurling.

He felt like somewhere, deep inside, he was bleeding out. And that this would do nothing to staunch the wound.

"I suppose I should explain why" Batman started, perfectly cordial, and Clark was suddenly and totally done letting him be the one to speak.

“No. I know _why_. Don’t _explain_ a secret identity to me. And I can see exactly how it works for you. I even know how you made him. You took everything about yourself you didn’t like and put it across the room. It the ugliest thing you can think of, so ugly it can’t be you, right? Only you sent the wrong guy out. Because the one you really hate is yourself. _This_ self. And I think you might be right” Clark said, sounding calm even as he exploded with what he was dying to say.

Almost like he’d been putting the words together in his head without knowing it. Reporter’s instinct.

"I get _all_ that. I can’t blame you for that” and there’s a little satisfaction at his flinch, at the implication that there were things he would be blamed for, at proof that Clark meant something beyond a sick game or test.

Batman would be righteous if he thought he could justify this, he’s sure.

“I just don't get why you- Why you did it." There’s no doubt about what he means.

Batman takes a deep breath, then lets it out. Whatever he meant to say, he doesn’t. He hasn’t taken his cowl off, either, and somehow it hurts like a blow.

It takes all Clark has to not reach over and rip it off. But there’s other ways to hurt him, to make him feel what Clark feels, to justify his cowering behind the mask. He’s afraid, and he should be.

“You knew, didn’t you? You weren’t surprised. I saw that. That means that all of it. It was _twisted_. You know that it was twisted, don’t you?” Clark says, belligerent, as out of control as he feels.

Because that’s the worst part, the knowledge he’s been avoiding. The way he’d recognized Wayne’s face as it narrowed, grew serious, clearly ready to shake sense into Clark if he had to.

He’d known the whole time. A whole new form of betrayal Clark hadn’t even contemplated until it happened.

“I know that” Batman says quietly, looking at him steadily but sounding like maybe it hurts him to say. Some vicious part of Clark says _good_.

"And you think that'll make everything better?" and Clark hates how his voice cracks at the end. Part of him was scared this might end in violence. Now he’s terrified he’s going to cry and it would hurt a million times worse.

At least he won’t be the only one licking wounds. "No, I don’t" Batman said, dropping his gaze.

"Nothing can make this better. I know that too" he said, and now his voice was low and ashamed. Nakedly pained. It didn’t feel good, after all. Clark just felt numb.

“Okay” he said, sounding scarily steady even to his own ears: “I want you to leave. I can’t look at you right now. Probably not for a while. But there is something you owe me”.

Batman squared his shoulders and Clark realized he could ask for practically anything, he could probably break his nose and teeth and ribs, and Batman would take it without a word.

He felt sick.

“How did you know it was me? And who have you told?” Clark said. The last sword in Batman’s arsenal, but one that cut both ways, now.

And of the two of them, Clark had access to a national newspaper and breaking celebrity news. He hoped that would keep Batman up at night.

“No one. I promise you that” he said, wincing because he knew that Clark had no incentive to trust him.

But his heartbeat, beating in Clark’s ears, says he _is_ being truthful. In this, at least.

“It was knowing what I knew, your movements, the way you write, your accent. I had no idea, not _really,_ until the Planet sent you, but when you came aboard I _saw_ you, the way you squint when you’re using your x-ray vision, and I had to. Test the hypothesis” and Clark feels all the blood from his face drain.

“The coffee” he said, newly horrified. Batman nodded, like he was determined to see this through.

“It didn’t hurt you the way it should have and you didn’t react like someone ordinary would have. And... I know your face” he added like a confession.

Clark closed his eyes.

He couldn’t take any more.

“Out. Now” and Batman was gone out the window like a whisper.

Mechanically, Clark went to bed. He didn’t sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Clark is completely, totally, miserable, and he’s too heartsick to hide it.

It’s not just the fact that Batman, that _Bruce_ , lied to him and knew what he was doing. Or the helpless mix of lust and humiliation that wells up when he thinks of Bruce Wayne’s hands playing at his belt.

It’s the fact that he misses his friend so badly it actually hurts.

He has no one to talk to, no one real. No one who sees him.

Lois notices, of course. They’re back working elbow to elbow again, the need to have them cover the whole narrowly-avoided-planetary-extermination mess is enough to fill the front pages and get them out of the legal doghouse.

It also kills the art piece he had absolutely nothing for, because no one cares about high society enjoying art that costs more than most people’s houses when aliens attack. Not that it makes Clark feel any better.

There’s also no call for celebrity news in times like these, even if Clark gets the feeling that Bruce Wayne is lying low anyway.

Bruce Wayne who is Batman, or rather Batman’s actual mask.

That makes sense, as much as anything does these days.

It makes him angry all over again, the ways Batman didn’t lie except for all the ways in which he did.

Clark didn’t even know his _name_ until this entire fiasco, despite having read it in headlines over and over. Some of which he wrote.

He tells himself he just did what hundreds of people his age do on the weekends, have a disastrous near hookup with the wrong person. Plenty of them probably did it with Bruce Wayne, besides.

And anyway, he really owed Clark nothing. The way they built their lives, their secrets, means Clark can’t hold half of what happened against him.

He stopped when Clark said no, didn’t do anything he didn’t want. Didn’t even have a choice about revealing his identity, not with lives at stake.

That’s the heart of it. In the end, Br-Batman chose not to tell him.

Not even that night, in the ReadiTent. It occurs to him now that he was looking for recognition, a change in Clark’s face. He didn’t find it.

And he would have told Clark if he trusted him, and clearly he didn’t.

So in the end, he was never Clark’s to lose.

It still hurts, like taking a magic infused arrow to the ribs. And this time, Batman won’t be there to pull it out, stroking Clark’s hair and making everything alright.

He has to stop thinking about it. All of it.

They still work together, will work together, on a job that needs to be done and only they can do.

He can keep his emotions in check. It won’t affect anything else.

No matter how many times Lois asks if he needs her to gut someone, after her ribbing and sarcasm don’t get anywhere.

She’s almost as bad as The Flash, hovering over him until Clark feels like snapping.

So even the satellite is out these days, except awkward console shifts that are long and lonely with no one to talk to.

Calling his parents over this makes him feel like throwing up, so that’s no option either, during the boring hours looking out at the distant planet.

Batman had sent over a schedule and roster, email cold but unfailingly polite, that Clark had okayed, because the job came first and anyway, the proposed line-up kept them away from each other.

It would have been kind if that wasn’t clearly what Batman wanted too.

Clark’s compensating by obsessively checking his comm, even though things have been quiet, which is what usually happens after big ones.

Everyone recuperates, civilians, heroes and villains alike.

Which is exactly why he’s not at all prepared for the gut punch shock of stepping onto the satellite to see Green Lantern with his arm around Batman’s waist as he limps to the infirmary.

They hate each other, which only makes them both take the being brothers-in-arms thing more seriously.

It helps that Green Lantern comes from a whole corps and what Clark suspects is an actual military background, from the way he talks.

“No biggie” GL says as Clark jumps forward and then uselessly drops his arms “he’ll have a sexy bruise, but we didn’t hear a crack”.

Batman probably doesn’t want him to touch. He’s certainly doing all he can to not look at Clark.

So he lets them go, feeling even worse, using his x-ray vision to check that Green Lantern wasn’t lying.

It looks like a sprain. And exhaustion. Maybe even dehydration, he overhears, as he is definitely not straining his hearing to do, through the metal walls.

He’s so embarrassed at himself that he fixes his gaze on the console and tries to tune everything else out.

Which means he doesn’t hear Green Lantern when he comes in.

For once, he looks serious.

“I didn’t know-” he says, like he needs to explain, when GL cuts him off. “Nah. He sent me a ping. Direct. He needed muscle and you two have been deep in the Cold War so” he sounds so matter of fact that Clark looks away.

It was the worst sort of wishful thinking, that no one would notice. Or mention it.

“It’s nobody’s business” he says to his lap, looking at his curled up hands, knowing it sounds weak and stupid.

“Yeah it is, everybody wants Mom and Dad to make up and things to go back to normal. And I might be a dick, but you do realize I give a fuck about this working, right?” he says, just as calm and Clark flinches.

There was a part of him that didn’t, actually, and the whole thing is embarrassing and endearing and a little much.

He’s still not used to having _people_ , a team he can rely on, here or on the Planet, and he might no longer have the one he values most.

He doesn’t say that, but GL doesn’t press, just keeps staring him down like he knows it’s the most effective way to wear him out.

The silence grows more and more uncomfortable, but GL doesn’t budge, leaning against the wall.

For all his impulsiveness, Clark knows he can be patient. Glacially so.

He finally cracks and nods, ready for him to say his piece and finish gutting him.

“Was it unforgivable?” GL says finally and Clark whips around, surprised enough at the words to show everything on his face.

“Look, whatever he told you-” GL actually laughs, snorting through his nose. His gaze doesn’t drop though, not for a moment.

For the first time, Clark feels like he’s seeing what the rings sees in him.

“Like he would tell me anything. Not that he had to. My brain does work, man, and between the two of you he would be the one to fuck up” and it’s a testament to him being right that Clark’s first urge is to defend Batman.

Until he remembers he’s supposed to be mad at him.

“Was it unforgivable?” GL repeats and he sounds almost kind.

Like he actually cares, about both of them as people and friends, beyond the need for the League to work. It shouldn’t have been surprising, all over again.

“I don’t know” Clark says, which is the worst part.

The silence comes back but it’s less oppressive. Like GL knows exactly how he feels. And what he needs to hear.

“You can love someone, with your whole heart, and still know they’re unforgivable. If he is, you deal with it. If he isn’t, you forgive. There’s no other way. Understand?” he says, and it’s clear that it’s true, that he knows what he’s talking about, and Clark almost asks _who couldn’t you forgive?_

But he does understand.

And when he thinks about it, he knows what he wants.

It must be written on his face. GL nods and leaves, and Clark doesn’t even get a chance to thank him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know me, [you know _exactly_ ](https://i2.wp.com/comicbookdebate.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/03/sinestro-and-jordan-friends.jpg?fit=1100%2C532&ssl=1)who Hal is talking about.


	9. Chapter 9

The sky is clear in Gotham for once, even though it’s the color of steel wool and there’s a biting wind in the air, whipping Clark’s red cape back and forth.

Even in the quiet of uptown, he had some bullets to stop before making it to his destination: the highest point in Gotham.

The spire of the cathedral provides some cover, and you can’t find a better view of the city.

He can see both of the river’s banks, and without straining, he can almost make out the harbor beyond.

It’s a tradeoff for the terrible coffee, because being a Gothamite must murder your taste buds.

He doesn’t have to wait long. Batman knows everything that happens in his city. Between one blink and the next, the dark shadow of Batman’s cape fans out on the nave roof in front of him, spread out like the wings of the animal he’s named for.

Batman looks up, uncharacteristically indecisive. Worried might be a better word, but there’s something like consolation in there too. It’s like he’s looking at a ghost he was hoping to see but didn’t believe in.

His landing was perfectly smooth, his ankle fully healed, and it soothes a worry he’s tired of not acknowledging. Of not being able to ask after.

He misses the way they used to just talk to each other. He hopes Batman does too.

It’s not like Clark let him know he was coming. And now that he’s here, he doesn’t really know what to say.

“I really owe you an apology” Batman says at last, when it looks like Clark didn’t come here to fight, in a rush that’s both desperate and hopeful.

“That’s an understatement” Clark says, taking another sip of his terrible coffee. He doesn’t have to make this easy, after all.

“I…” Batman starts and stops, his jaw shifting in consternation. Then he exhales sharply and presses on, the way he always does.

“I’m very sorry. You deserved better” and it’s a start. They’re clearly words that have been waiting some time to be said.

“You were right” he adds, more pained. Clark’s never heard him say it. When it comes to each other, they just keep doing the unimaginable. Before all this, it was a good thing.

“Pretty often, actually. What about?” he says because as much as he wanted to keep using the silent treatment he didn’t expect that.

“About Wayne. Me. The way I made him and. Who the worst of us is. Because, the truth is, I’m sorry that I hurt you. But I am not sorry about that night. Before it all went wrong at least” he adds, half relieved, half tense.

Maybe because Clark is so shocked he squeezes the paper coffee cup so hard that what was left shoots up and splatters on his jaw. He barely notices. He’s too busy staring at Batman. Bruce.

“I thought it was what you wanted. I can tell when someone is attracted, and I thought you’d just want Wayne for sex. He’s not made for anything else. And I was happy to do it. One night. It was the only way I thought I’d ever have you” he finishes, holding Clark’s gaze until the end.

When it drops, he hears a little subsonic noise, a laugh caught in Bruce’s throat. Aimed at himself, that’s clear.

Clark shakes his head. “Hell of a way to go about it” he says because what else can he say.

“Did he have to be such a caricature?” he adds, thinking of Wayne on the yacht. The Earth is flat, he’d said, like he hadn’t seen it himself a hundred times, like a marble in space.

“At first it was just about plausible deniability. My public reputation was already terrible and I thought I would live down to everyone’s expectations. Create a mental distance between Wayne and Batman, because how could that idiot ever be anything but? And then. You know already” he answers, honest, voice low.

He doesn’t add that it’s also because it made it easier to hate him, every time, with every interview. But he couldn’t make him another person, not really. Just a punching bag with his own face taped on it. Clark doesn’t need to be told.

“I only picked your crotch because it would be most sensitive” he adds, half honest and half trying to get Clark to hit him, he realizes, too. Like that would solve this.

There’s still so many ways in which they don’t know each other.

Clark scrapes a hand over his face and sighs, saying what he came here to say.

“I’m still mad at you-” “And you have a right to be-” Clark holds up a hand.

“Let me finish. I’m mad, but I’ll come around. In time. You messed up, we both know that, and this isn’t a magic fix, but. I miss my friend. My teammate. Enough to want to forgive you” Clark says, having thought of the words when Green Lantern pressed.

He can hear Bruce suck in a breath, like Clark punched him after all.

“There’s a condition though” he adds and Bruce’s heartbeat evens out, like he was expecting that.

“You stop hating Bruce Wayne. I’m not saying his public persona has to change. But inside? I need you to work on it. Because if you keep trying to get me to hit you, this isn’t going to work” Clark finishes, because it’s true.

Both of them need to forgive to move on. And they’re forgiving the same person.

Clark looks back at the sky, watching the sun start to melt, light turning orange behind the gloom of the clouds.

Bruce needs a minute to get his breathing under control and Clark doesn’t want to make it any harder for him.

It can’t have been easy, not knowing what he knows now about what made him who he is.

There’s really only one way to inherit millions, after all, and he has a feeling Bruce would give it all back in a heartbeat, cowl and all, to have the ones he lost back.

“Alright” Bruce says after a long, long time, “I’ll try”.

Clark was already starting to try and see beyond the pollution, light and otherwise, to the stars. There’s a place for grace, and no better than the roof of a church.

So he nods and those armored shoulders finally relax.

“Thank you” Bruce says, before jumping off the roof like the ghoul he pretends to be.

Clark tracks his heartbeat through the streets, smiling to himself. They’ll get there.

No matter the challenges they’re facing, together and separately, known and unknown.

He’s sure of it now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Gotham Cathedral](https://batman.fandom.com/wiki/Gotham_Cathedral_\(Burton_Films\)) really is a thing, that forced me to look up the correct architectural terms.


	10. Epilogue

When they finally get back to the satellite, him and J’onn and Green Lantern because they’re the ones that are space certified, they’re all sore and covered in meteor dust.

GL claps him on the shoulder and disappears somewhere, as does J’onn. Or maybe Clark’s the one that ducks out first, bleary eyed and ready for rest.

He yawns as he heads to his room because he’s too tired and dirty to fly back to his apartment.

On the tiny ledge by his small, flat, standard-issue bed, there’s the light of a blinking text message on his phone.

Jimmy, telling him with a :P that he’d made it to the year-end list. Attached was the picture: Clark lecturing Bruce Wayne on a yacht that was worth more than his entire apartment building, number 7 out of 10 for their Most Liked on Instagram.

If that had been the end of it, if nothing that had happened afterward had happened, Clark might have laughed, the mortification dimmed after seven months.

As it is, he almost smiles.

He’s still thinking of it as he steps into his claustrophobic shower, which unfailingly reminds him of a metal coffin, sluicing off the grime with a wince.

Over two hundred days later and they were okay, him and Bruce. It would be so easy to continue on, keep on with the way things were now.

But things aren’t the way that they were before, and he as much as he likes the new balance, there’s things that still need to be said.

He’s known that longer than he cares to admit, but maybe it took a meteor barreling at his face to get him to budge. And plenty of team bonding and healing and bitching in hypotheticals to Lois, who can probably see right through him.

Toweling his hair dry, Clark picks up his comm.

Bruce is at the door seconds later, the slant of his mouth worried, taking in Clark’s soft sweatpants and baggy sleep shirt, cataloguing them like threats.

Clark hits the button for the door to close, waiting for his breathing to steady. The best way to deal with Bruce is patience, he’s found.

When he’s done looking for LexCorp destroyer bots in the corners, Clark says what he’s wanted to say for months: “Take your mask off”.

Bruce doesn’t hesitate.

The face underneath is handsome, but that’s not what he likes about it. He likes how steady; how steadfast it is. The face of a man who fights because he can’t imagine doing anything else.

It’s the face that must have been leaning into his in the ReadiTent.

It’s the face that measured him up in the dark of the art gallery.

It’s the face of a man he could love, and he’s halfway to doing that, anyway.

Because they know both sides of each other now, hero and human, and all the ways they combined.

He’s Clark’s best friend.

Maybe they were heading towards this all along.

“I was honest that night too, you know” he says, because they haven’t talked about that, at least, since they decided to forgive each other.

Bruce’s face twists, eager and hesitant, the way he almost never gets to see it. Clark traces his cheekbones with his fingers, careful like he’s made of glass.

This face was there the entire time they’ve known each other, but it’s the first time he’s ever touched it like this.

There’s so much still left to do, so much time gone.

Bruce’s hand closes on his, eyes searching.

“It’s still true, Bruce” and his eyes narrow, worried. He always worries.

“I’d always rather talk to you. But that doesn’t mean the night isn’t on the list” Clark says, stepping closer, and Bruce’s lips twitch.

“Just one?” he says, half joking. There’s a tremble in his voice only Clark could hear.

“It’s a start” Clark says and finally, finally, kisses him again.

He tastes like sweat and metal, the trapped air of the cowl.

It’s a lot better than last time. It’s real.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from 5 Seconds of Summer's _[Teeth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JWeJHN5P-E8)_ which fits pretty well. For the purposes of this fic, Metropolis is Chicago. And, V, thank you for allowing me to talk myself into this.


End file.
